


Sweetmeats

by FLWhite



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Light Angst, Wedding Night, spoilers for The Queen of Attolia.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite/pseuds/FLWhite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of conversing and chucking nuts (not a salacious reference, promise) after Attolia's wedding banquet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetmeats

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This fanfiction has been written for entertainment purposes only and is not intended for profit. Citation or other use of the text must be preceded by consultation with the author. This AO3 version republished from fanfiction.net.  
> Thank you for reading.  
> FL White (formerly EK Black, https://www.fanfiction.net/~ekblack ).

Sweetmeats

Outside, the shuffle of the unusually quiet attendants drew nearer, and she found her fingers tight against the leaf-scrolled arms of the chair. Presently she heard, muffled by the drapings, the door of the anteroom being opened, and then feet, a single pair, outside her chamber. She hated the pound of blood in her ears as she stood and went over, and paused for a moment before turning the knob, to let the warmth in her face subside. Briefly she thought it odd that Eugenides should come to her through the door, wedding night be damned-or perhaps especially because it was their wedding night, her second. She had half (quarter, the thought winked through her mind as she contemplated leaving him outside and going to bed alone) fancied while waiting that she would see him, stuck batlike outside her bay window, grinning, and that she'd have to step on her desk to undo the latch for him, the idiot.

He opened the door for himself, and a block of light from the anteroom followed him in. As he stepped forward, face lowered, the peacock-colored surcoat he'd worn at the banquet flapped over a soft gleam-ah, yes, she remembered, with a little throb of numbness. He couldn't have come in through the window. The king of Attolia had no right hand. She'd cut it off.

Eugenides was trying to be slow, careful, she saw. But when she flinched away he put his back straight and lifted his head, and together their eyes went to the bladed hook at the end of the king's sleeve, which, though long and of fine heavy cloth, could only hide the straps that held steel to flesh. "Irene," he began, instinctively drawing the hook behind him, but she seized his sleeve at the elbow, hard, and pulled it forward, taking the rest of him with her into the square of candlelight that surrounded her bed. The hook shone tawny, and in it she saw her face, small and flattened, and his as he laid his forehead on her shoulder. She did not want it to, but an fat ugly sob pressed past her clenched jaw and erupted into the warm-lit chamber, where it seemed to be swallowed by the dark. Eugenides had put his good arm around her as she had trembled in resistance to the sob, and kissed her wet jaw tentatively as she stood. "Irene, it's all right," he said, not at all convincingly, because his own tears made his voice rough and soft, brought out the Eddisian accent. "Irene." She let his sleeve fall, and felt him delicately maneuver the arm so its elbow fitted her hip. For a while they stood there, she crying quietly, without wiping her face, and he with his face nestled against her neck.

Then of a sudden Eugenides dropped his arms and darted to her desk. "Yoghurt almonds!" he exclaimed, picking one out from a bowl of sweetmeats laid out earlier in the evening. Attolia stared at him uncertainly. In the half-light it was hard to say if he was smiling or grimacing, but he did clearly insert several into his mouth.

"You ...like them?" Perhaps they were something Eddisians were especially fond of? He had not shown any interest in them earlier. The nuts would have to be changed daily. She would have that new attendant look to it, a simple enough task, filling a bowl. What was that girl's name? Ariadne? Ariane? No, Adriane. Something pointed tapped her bodice and slid toward the floor. She put her slippered foot on it and the something crunched moistly. Another caught in the coil of gold that held her left braid. She saw him before the third could be deployed and countered with her iciest look. He was definitely grinning, now, the same slightly crooked, brow-wiggling grin she'd imagined him giving her from outside her window. "You are. Such a child."

He was laughing aloud, and almost choked on the third almond that had been awaiting launch. "The first time," he panted finally," I did this to my cousin-who-is-Eddis, she had that exact same face. Gods, except she was nine! And had missing front teeth!" And he resumed his laughter.

The thought of a child Eddis's most iron-jawed glare did not appeal to Attolia as particularly risible, but Eugenides was practically kneeling on the floor with hilarity. "It is most disheartening, then, that my lord Attolis continues to find this disgusting practice of such apparent amusement a fullscore years later." He paused, and she felt him attempting to gauge precisely how angry she had gotten. Correctly, he found about a three-seven ratio between fury and suppressed chuckling, and slipped toward her to press his advantage. She gasped and succumbed to the fingers that danced on her ribs; her ticklish spot had been a most unfortunate discovery on Eugenides's part, a month or so ago when he had tried to surprise her at her desk. Helplessly she struggled against him. "Cry uncle, my lady Attolia," he said, laughing almost as hard himself. She gathered enough breath to say, "But that would be incest, certs, my lord Attolis." They quivered silently, weeping again with mirth. Presently they disentangled themselves; Attolia's braids had come half-undone in the fray, and Eugenides's surcoat had straggled to the floor in a velvety pool. They caught their breaths, and Eugenides threw himself onto the bed, where he bounced a little. Attolia stood next to him and stroked his hair.

"Would you really call me that?" He sat a little stiffer. There was no need to add that he did not mean "uncle."

Her fingers pinched a long curling lock, gently, and slid down its length. "Perhaps," she said at last. "Would you hate that?"

"I might." Eugenides picked at the bedspread. " Attolia released the strand, which sprang back. "I-" He interrupted himself by sliding to his feet and beginning to pace, then furtively glanced at her and stopped. His hand worked at an entirely unnecessary tassel that hung from the hem of his tunic. "I'm sorry, Irene. I'm making you marry an idiot.

"They hid my shoes and my sash in the back of the wardrobe before the banquet. No," He amended, seeing her mouth tighten, "it's not their fault, really. If I were an Attolis I could wither them with a glance, all that. I'm not, though." And though he was quick to notice her watching and to snatch his hand off it, she saw him wrap the fingers of his good hand around the steel cuff of his hook, where his wrist had been.

"You are Attolis," she said tightly, ignoring the penitent fold of his brows. "You are my King. And you shall rule them." Like it or not, but that could go either way, for them or for him, and Eugenides looked like a kicked dog-no, she corrected herself, smiling savagely, a lame dog-whimpering at its master. In a haze of annoyance she went to her desk and took out one of the tinier inkwells, pink or lavender or some such impractical color. She turned to him, caressing the little bulb of glass in her hands, and without warning threw it. She had not meant it to hit him, but it missed his head by a few fingerwidths only and smashed against a drapery-clad wall. The ink dripped black against the dark gold field, which eventually absorbed it, most of the way to the floor. Eugenides had sat again, and he appeared to be studying his lap with intense interest. The claw of drying ink met his shadow, cast on the wall, at the nape.

What she did next, as Attolia strained to remember the next morning while her attendants dressed her hair, was vague. She was certain that she'd rushed to him, all hunched on her bed, but whether it was she who kissed him first, or the other way around, was a mystery. And then there had been more tears-she was fairly sure that he had been trying to keep them in while sitting there looking run-over, so it was probably he who started it, though she was not long in joining him. After that there was an awkward pause, and Eugenides turned his back to unstrap the hook, but she put her arms over his shoulders and helped him; before steel met marble she'd gotten him to turn back to her, and then everything descended completely into chaos. A nice chaos. With a few giggles. The last thing Attolia could remember before Phresine was curtsying at the bedside with the dawn behind her was thinking of how Eugenides tasted strongly of sweet yoghurt.

Ariphane, daughter of an obscure colonel, two weeks into the palace service that her mother had promised would land her a handsome catch, wondered at the luminosity of the smile the Queen suddenly wore. "Ariadne." Ariphane continued to trim the candle-wicks until, by the weight of all eyes in the chamber, she realized the Queen was addressing her. "Your Majesty?"

"Your new duties will concern the bowl on my desk. Fill it," the Queen's face glowed sunlike, perhaps an illusion in the golden room, "with yoghurted almonds."


End file.
